Tick-tock, hickory-dock, Paramount owns Star Trek to make a buck.
Ding-dong, ping-pong, Decker writes Star Traks strictly for fun.
Flying-ace, frilly-lace, I am the creator of BorgSpace.
Tick Tick Tic-Toc
His name was unpronounceable to any but his own kind; and even the assignment of the gender pronoun "male" was tenuous at best. Still, for practical consideration, "he" worked well enough; and his name, as best could be translated from a language which consisted of modulated radio waves, was Stardancer.
Stardancer contentedly absorbed the solar radiation which struck the photovoltaic cells of flanks and pseudowings. While his fusion core provided more than sufficient power, the warmth of the sun to Stardancer was akin to the pleasure a human had when stretched out in front of a crackling fire. It was a small luxury he did not often have a chance to enjoy, but the pilgrimage to the Shrine planet of the Creators warranted it.
At the still distant Shrine, the Mouth of the Creators rose over the limb of the planet. Radio waves were limited by the speed of light, therefore the Mouth's senseless babble did not reach Stardancer for another twenty minutes. As he had throughout his journey, and as had many pilgrims before, Stardancer concentrated on the Mouth, trying to make sense where there was none. While the Mouth jabbered in the tongue of the Creators, it said nothing coherent. Perhaps the Priests which attended the Mouth would one day have a revelation which would allow the Tic-Toc race to understand what vital message the Creators were trying to convey through their Mouth.
Stardancer was a Tic-Toc, which was to say he was a species of highly evolved von Neumann machine. A von Neumann machine is a robot which is able to reproduce itself. Advanced von Neumann machines were capable of doing more than repeatedly copy the same blueprint, but could adapt through the software version of genetic drift. And the most advanced of von Neumann machines eventually evolved sentience, as had the Tic-Tocs 20,000 years prior.
Specifically, Stardancer was a species of von Neumann machine which could trace its lineage back to that of a scout. Once upon a time, 100,000 years ago, five great behemoths known as carrier/supervisors had arrived at the Shrine system, disgorging their cargo of miners, builders, and scouts. Terraformation of the second planet had begun according to pre-programmed instructions. The scouts, with the least strict programming, had simply been bade to explore, to find material needed by the terraforming effort, to discover substances which might benefit their masters when they arrived.
Unbeknownst to the sub-sentient carrier/supervisors of Task Force 3, the masters had destroyed themselves in a genocidal war of hellish atomics, rendering their home planet a radioactive cinder. The carrier/supervisors did not care, did not measure time, only knew their instructions to coordinate the terraforming effort, and following that, the taming of the star system for their masters. They oversaw the legions of miners, builders, and scouts, examining mutations in software genetic code. Those mutations which were beneficial and which did not fall outside a specific set of parameters were allowed; and those mutations which did not pass muster were destroyed. Then the star which had been quiet for 30,000 years flared. Three carrier/supervisors were destroyed with the other two rendered mute.
At 70,000 years before present, the Tic-Toc race retained the primordial scout form which had off-loaded from the carrier/supervisors. A long 50,000 years remained until self-awareness. No records survived of the early days, although in much the same way garbled oral traditions may survive from before the advent of a writing, an odd racial memory recounted a period of confusion, of fire, of death. Those survivors among miners, builders, and scouts no longer had their code reined in by overseers. Mutations ran rampant, begetting a wide range of species. One branch of scouts developed increasingly complex stimulus-response patterns until the advent of sentience was inevitable.
Flash forward to the present and the entity known as Stardancer. Similar in body configuration to the original scout subtype, Stardancer was a stubby delta-winged form approximately four meters in length. The upper surfaces of his wings and much of the dorsal fuselage was covered in glossy faux-plas solar cells, allowing for the collection of solar energy. At his heart, however, hummed a highly efficient fission-fusion furnace. As befitting one whose ancestry was devoted to discovery and exploration, a wide variety of sensors studded any surface not obscured by photovoltaic cells; and panels on the ventral fuselage could open to reveal many kinds of manipulators and scientific instruments. Stardancer himself was slightly modified in that he bulged oddly at the middle, signifying the expansion of his natal secondary cargo hold. While the operation had been moderately expensive and very time consuming, how else was he to transport his pet, a dwarf trader carry-all?
"Hello. Reverse osmosis. Giant star. Good bye. Go away. Hellfire. Solar cycle. Happy. Blanket. Eternity."
Stardancer listened to the babbling Mouth, absorbing all words. Every time he believed he recognized a pattern, the bud of understanding withered. Eventually the Mouth orbited to the far side of Shrine, and the transmission faded. Soon he would be sharing orbit with the holy Mouth; and soon he would be looking down upon the planet Shrine for himself. Pictures of Shrine depicted a lovely world of green, brown, and blue, frosted with white, so very different from the rocks in the second asteroid belt where he spent most of his time prospecting for ores. It would be the opportunity of a lifetime to finally see the planet itself in all its spectra. Most importantly, he would shortly thereafter be allowed to descend to the surface to perform the sacred duty he longed to accomplish.
Stardancer had it all planned out: the dwellings in subgrid 45-delta of the tertiary continent would be sufficiently re-stuccoed to not need attention for at least thirty planetary revolutions around the sun.
*****
The Collective and its Colored off-shoots labeled it spatial anomaly #726. Most spacefaring races who knew of the phenomenon called it Tortured Space. Q thought it a stupendous joke. The Xenig pretty much ignored it. No one had thought to ask the Shiz-faeros what they called it, but then again, the Shiz-faeros were plasma beings who thought anything less than a million degrees Celsius was a frigid Hell.
Tortured Space was a roughly spherical volume approximately 500 light years in diameter in which warp drive did not function. It was possible to go faster than light using transwarp, hypertranswarp, and other, more esoteric, methods, but for any race which had to rely upon warp technology, Tortured Space presented a large detour. No one knew how Tortured Space came to be, if it was a natural occurrence or the result of an ancient industrial accident. It was well enough that it existed. Pity the species which evolved within the expanse and yearned for the stars, for unless they leaped certain technological rungs and bypassed development of warp, they were forever doomed to less-than-light speeds. As far as could be determined, no highly developed organic species lived within Tortured Space. Inorganic was another story.
The Tic-Tocs - mech species #6 by Borg reckoning - existed in a large system approximately fifty light years from the border of Tortured Space. Discovered five thousand years prior via assimilated records, the Collective occasionally (once every century or so) sent an Exploratory-class cube to observe the evolution of both mechs and the nonsentient robotic fauna. No attempt at assimilation had yet to be made. Presumably the Tic-Toc ancestors had been built by an organic race, but the originators had never been discovered.
The mechs were extremely xenophobic and had the propensity to swarm any vessel which approached closer than the orbit of the outermost plant, a gas giant more slush than gas. Individually the Tic-Tocs were weak, but when gathered as an angry, kamikaze mass supported by domesticated nonsentient mechs selectively bred for size and an extremely powerful laser, Battle-class cubes and Assault-class spheres beware. As long as Borg (or any) ships remained outside the arbitrary boundary set by the Tic-Tocs, the mechs were content to ignore all observers.
The system of the Tic-Tocs was huge. In addition to the slush giant, five Jovians and six rocky Terrestrials sedately orbited their parent, an aged yellow dwarf with a mere two billion years of life left until it ballooned into a red giant. Two asteroid belts were present, one between the third and the forth planet, and another located just beyond the huge, ringed Jove which was planet eight. Countless moons swung around their planetary primaries.
While it was the second planet the Tic-Tocs most jealously guarded, a life-bearing sphere just within the star's liquid water zone, that wasn't the only world the Tic-Tocs seemed to revere. The third rock from the sun, an arid world of sand and cold temperatures, was slowly being warmed via re-invigoration of cooled tectonics; and within the five millennia the Greater Consciousness had been observing, a pair of moons circling the fifth planet, a moderately sized gas giant, had been undergoing the first steps in terraforming.
Cube #347 waited motionless a mere thousand kilometers beyond the intangible line which delineated the space Tic-Tocs would heatedly defend. A trio of the small mechs with a guard dog (for lack of a designation for the domesticated mechanical creature) suspiciously floated a similar distance inside their territory. Occasionally a mech would squeal a radio transmission at the cube, one which, if modified and played on a speaker, translated into the speech of the presumed Tic-Toc makers, a race likely long dead. The message was inevitably always the same:
"Go away."
The Exploratory-class cube was not on the once-a-century recon mission, a fact the Tic-Tocs well knew after thousands of years of observing the clock-like precision of the Collective. The last official observation of the Tic-Toc system had occurred 48 years prior. Cube #347 was present for different reasons.
A low-yield quantum torpedo spat forth from Cube #347. It headed across the border and towards the knot of Tic-Toc guards and their mech dog. The foursome scattered, allowing the torpedo to continue on its unguided course until it ran out of fuel. The provocation prompted the dog - a much larger and definitely more spiky version of the scout frame, oversized lasers unable to be completely withdrawn into body - to rush towards the cube. However, a sharp radio frequency whistle called the animal back to its handler before it had traveled more than a hundred kilometers. The stand-off returned to the status quo.
{That was uncalled for, Weapons,} chided Captain. His hierarchy had been busy considering what course of action was needed to complete the task mandated by the Greater Consciousness, and the impromptu impulse by the weapons hierarchy head had occurred before reactive measures could be taken.
Weapons' tone had an edge to it, {We need to do something. Those mechs require elimination before we continue. All simulations support the action.}
Captain allowed himself a small frown. Weapons was correct, and eventually the mechs would be terminated. However, the course of action /beyond/ the immediate was yet to be concretely determined. {We are not prepared, Weapons. Now is not the time. Return to the BorgCraft simulations. You will be allowed to destroy something, just not yet.}
Silence from Weapons was Captain's answer, and a brooding presence which provoked command and control to brace for a lunge at weaponry controls. Then, abruptly, the BorgCraft pathways were activated and most of Weapons' awareness sunk into the simulation, dragging his hierarchy along.
The purpose of Cube #347 at the mech system was not to provoke guards, but to retrieve a species #10427 probe in orbit around the second planet. Species #10427 was undergoing the final stage of assimilation, home system under assault. During an earlier phase of attack, when outlying colonies were being absorbed, the Collective had accidentally (yes, the Greater Consciousness occasionally made mistakes, but the blame was usually assigned to random fluctuations in chance which were beyond any entity's ability to calculate for) destroyed an old research complex associated with a minor, yet overly resistant, military base. After shifting through the debris left after the planetary bombardment, the Collective had found scraps of intact data which indicated the race had released a sublight probe into Tortured Space approximately a century prior in a long-term bid to study the Tic-Tocs up close.
The Collective knew of the probe, had been tracking its slow progress during the infrequent times an Exploratory-class cube passed near spatial anomaly #726. Until the research complex, the owner of the probe had been unknown; and, frankly, the Greater Consciousness had not paid more than superficial attention because it did not seem to present any new technology which required the trouble of retrieval from the anomaly. The complex, however, radically changed opinion by the collective Mind. Tantalizing hints of partially reconstructed data referred to an innovation in small-scale impulse drives and supporting powerplant. Thus far, the complex, well destroyed with all scientists terminated, was the only source of the new technology, other than the probe. The Collective would continue to search for additional information, either via electronic/written data or newly assimilated drones, but the most efficient way to gain the desired tech was to collect the probe.
Unfortunately, it had already been claimed by the Tic-Tocs.
The species #10427 scientists of 100 years and three generations prior had designed the probe with the hope that it would so intrigue the Tic-Tocs that they would not summarily destroy it like they annihilated nearly everything that crossed the invisible border at the outermost planet. An enterprising research student had acquired a vast collection of the Tic-Toc's verbal language. While not overly chatty to intruders at the frontier, a dedicated listener could occasionally be rewarded with words carried on radio waves from the depths of the Tic-Toc system. Unfortunately, because the content of the speech was unclear and the sentence structure appeared to be unusual, species #10427 translators had never resolved the babble beyond the border warning of "Go away." The probe had been loaded with all known speech and sent on its way, the mildly intelligent AI directed to spout forth the phrases in random ordering. Assuming the mechs did not outright destroy the probe, the purposes of the Tic-Toc-shaped object was to try, through trial and error, to assemble a workable translation file, as well as make general observations. Connection to the research facility was maintained via a subspace carrier wave.
The Tic-Tocs had taken in the probe; and, much to the chagrin of the present crop of scientists who had inherited the probe, appeared to have designated it a religious shrine. At that point, all investigations into Tic-Tocs (and anything else for that matter) had been put on indefinite hold with the arrival of three Battle- and two Assimilation-class cubes.
The problems which prevented an easy retrieval were threefold. First, the need to observe the system prior to entry in order to ascertain potential obstacles would inevitably alert ever-observant mech guards. Second, while the preferred action would be to charge in at warp, emergency slow to a near stop, tractor or transporter the probe, and leave, such was not possible in Tortured Space; and attempting the same maneuver from much faster transwarp velocities would as likely drop the cube into the middle of the planet (or the sun) as in position for the snatch. Finally, any hesitancy while in the system, especially near the second planet, would insure a terminal swarm of Tic-Tocs, domestic mechs, and anything else including the local equivalent of the kitchen sink. The Collective's solution to the high risk task? Send Cube #347.
Cue to the present with Cube #347 just beyond the border, contemplating courses of action while ignoring radio transmission growls of the dog and Tic-Tocs shouting "Go away."
Captain examined the plan with the highest probability of success. While the percentage was only 53.2%, it was better than the next possibility. Consolidation of details was still required, but it was not the first time the imperfect sub-collective had been forced to work on fuzzy parameters with minimal Collective input. Weapons absolutely hated the plan because it lacked important components such as singularity torpedoes and large explosions.
{Is the cloaking device functional?} asked Captain to Delta. All Borg Exploratory-class cubes of this era sported cloaking devices. However, they were underutilized by the Greater Consciousness, which had only added the devices because Peach had done so. Peach cloaks were much more refined than those of the Borg, and they tended to work better too. Cube #347's cloaking device, while brand new, was showing a disturbing tendency to be temperamental. The sub-collective did not wish to become uncloaked with all propulsion relays blown while deep in the Tic-Toc system.
In Warp Core Annex #6, Delta smacked a hammer to the cowling of the primary cloak integrator. The cloaking devices themselves scattered around the cube seemed to be functional. The black box which was supposed to centrally control them was another thing. Delta fed command and control the latest test results. {It is functioning within parameters.}
Captain observed the spikes in a dataspace graph of the results. Yes, it was within parameters, just barely. {The energy utilization upon the secondary bands is troublesome. If it spikes at the wrong time, there will be difficulties.}
{Engineering will continue to search for the source. /If/ the origination is physical, not software-related, the signature suggests a coupling or relay, but it could be the controller itself. Troubleshooting will take time,} replied Delta. For good measure, the hammer was applied once more.
{We understand.} A consensus cascade was initiated, the outcome examined. {The retrieval will commence. Ready the bait.}
In Bulk Cargo Hold #2, 127 of 230 voiced an unBorg sob as one of her racing shuttles was lifted out of a line of similar sleek-flanked vessels. {No, not the Impari Special. I change my mind. Use a different one.} 127 of 230 tracked the progress of the needle-nosed craft as hold docking tractors edged it upwards and towards the open cargo hold doors. Her whole hand clenched into an agitated fist; and devices on her cybernetic limb erratically whirred.
Weapons took control of the racing shuttle, remotely powering it up and running through the checklists. {Bah. This thing has no weapons. The powerplant and engines are excellent, though.}
127 of 230 watched as the shuttle nosed through the force field which separated the hold from vacuum. As it completed the maneuver and was handed off to exterior tractor beams, the cargo bay doors began to close. 127 of 230 switched to a hull camera feed to follow the Impari Special's progress. {No, no! Don't rev the engines like that! You'll ruin the timing of the matter-anti-matter coupler. Ah! No donuts! The stabilizers can't handle that sort of inertial load dump!}
{You aren't getting the shuttle back, 127 of 230,} said Weapons, unimpressed. The tractors released the small ship. The Impari Special brightly flared its main thruster engine once more, then engaged low impulse. At an acceleration which made 127 of 230 cringe, the needle ship, disembarked on the side of the cube opposite the guards, was sent screaming towards the border.
In her alcove, Sensors performed a full body wince in response to the radio wave howl from the dog when the shuttle streaked across the boundary. The domestic mech, five times larger than the average Tic-Toc, swiftly followed the remotely operated shuttle, handler (who had attached a physical tether to it after the earlier charge) in involuntary tow. The dog ignored all attempts by handler to stop.
The remaining guard pair made abortive gesture towards their mate, puffs of thruster gas forming a diffuse ice cloud. They were obviously torn between helping the third member of their party and staying on station. Finally with a last "Go away" directed in unison at Cube #347, the two turned towards the rapidly distancing pursuit and engaged impulse drive
Cube #347 cloaked.
The Borg Exploratory-class cube approached the second planet from below the ecliptic. Unlike the plane of the system, the volume above and below were relatively untrafficked, only the occasional Tic-Toc tracked as it traveled to an unknown destination. The discreteness was needed because after the dog had caught and shredded 127 of 230's racing shuttle, the guards had noticed Cube #347 disappearance. Paranoid mechs that they were, the guard companies had begun systematic scanning for the presence of the Borg cube. However, the volume of the system was large and, for once, the advantage was to Cube #347, assuming the cloak did not malfunction.
{Just /one/ maser...a /single/ disruptor,} cajoled Weapons, the edge of a whine coloring the request.
{No,} replied Captain. Or, rather, the automated loop Captain had initiated several hours ago replied. The conscious part of Captain was busy coordinating interpretation of sensor input focused upon the second planet where the probe was located. To prevent any not-so-accidental weaponry discharges which might overload the cloak or, at the very least, alert Tic-Toc teams as to cube position, /all/ offense and active defense had been disengaged.
{A very tiny, small, double proton singularity torp?}
{No.}
{One rail gun with high-yield explosive pellets?}
{No.}
{Weapons...don't you dare,} warned Second. Weapons had attempted to surreptitiously remove the block on a bank of neuruptors. Many elements of command and control were watching Weapons' actions, as well as those of the more excitable members of the hierarchy. Weapons backed off, although the morass of leaked thoughts indicated that he was far from defeat.
{A cutting laser?}
{No.}
Captain concentrated upon the latest update of the Shrine planet. Suitably recolored and the worst of the Sensors'-induced distortions corrected, the number of obstacles between Cube #347 and the probe was staggering. The second planet was always a hive of activity, Tic-Tocs continually arriving and departing according to an unknown, and irrelevant, religious imperative. However, now there was a dense concentration of sentient and attendant domesticated mechs in the vicinity of the probe, guard dog varieties many times larger than the brute at the border prominent. A high impulse snatch and grab was not possible; and even with a cloak, the chances were near 100% that the cube would be detected, if nothing else simply by a mech smashing onto a face.
{And while a spread of singularity torps in the region would undoubtedly nullify the protections, Weapons, with 98.5% probability the target would be destroyed as well. No.}
Weapons returned to his assault upon reclaiming his toys, er, cube systems.
Passing relatively close to the cube, the sensor grid noted a mech's course. Vectors indicated it had recently left the second planet. The final destination was unidentified, but routine calculations combined with observations from other Tic-Tocs on similar routes suggested the outer asteroid belt was the objective. A radical modification to the original plan began to swiftly form.
*****
Stardancer daydreamed. His pilgrimage was over, and the second of the three things he wanted to accomplish during his life was complete. He had his successful farm on a moderate sized asteroid with a mixed herd of miners and a greenhouse for real plants; and now the trip to Shrine to stucco, paint, and, most excitedly, break ground for a new mini-mall recently authorized by the head Creator GuildPriest in response to a coherent string of words from the Mouth. The last major ambition of Stardancer was to convince a female to use a sufficient majority of his genetic code strings to create a child that would be fostered to him to raise. Thoughts shifted (the trip between Shrine and home was long) to the farm...maybe if he added a field of solar collectors that female who had been in the area when he left, assuming she was still around, would find him a suitable major-code suitor.
The farm...the greenhouse...the plants! Stardancer checked his forward cargo compartment, then felt relief. The snippets and cell cultures were doing well, held at a comfortable storage temperature just above the freezing point of water. While he had to utilize extra energy to heat the cargo space, the additions to his hobby would be worth the trouble. Many of the cultures came from plants with potentially interesting pharmological ramifications for the Creators when they finally returned to this plane of existence and the Nirvana their followers had built for them. Even if none of the cultures produced the substances Stardancer had thought he had detected, the snippets were the real prize. Of tropical flowers, one would think that a creature born of metal, plastics, and ceramics would be incapable of appreciating organic beauty. One would be wrong.
Everything was absolutely perfect in Stardancer's life!
In the expanded hold, TarTar, his miniature trader carry-all pet, let loose an electronic whistle which grated upon Stardancer's senses. TarTar then began to uncharacteristically rock in his restraints, vestigial secondary tooth plates grinding together with agitation.
"TarTar! What's with you, you silly carry-all!" spoke Stardancer to his pet. There was no verbal component as such because there was no air to carry sound. That was fine since Tic-Tocs (and the other fauna of the mech system) utilized the radio frequencies for verbalization. The Tic-Toc system was as noisy as any tropical jungle, assuming one knew how to listen.
TarTar continued to strain against his restraints, almost as if some predator was sensed.
Stardancer, while not as attuned to certain types of electrical fields as the dwarf carry-all, suddenly felt a change in valence potential along his outer hull. The sensation was akin to human goosebumps. Stardancer instinctively swept a sounding pulse of radar to check his near space for possible trouble: the giant, free-roaming predatory rustuc was thought to be extinct, but there were always rumors from those old mechs who prospected the comet fields and the non-ecliptic asteroids. The return bounce painted a giant wall where none should be less than 100 meters to his right.
Then a burst of energy danced along his nervous system analogue and he fell into an unconscious stupor.
The heat was the first thing Stardancer was aware of, before other exterior senses. It was the heat of Shrine near the equator, or a greenhouse of organic plants. It was not a temperature a mech, evolved for the rigors of vacuum, necessarily found comfortable. Opening a cautious hatch, a sensor probe was exserted: 39.1 C (Tic-Toc equivalent) and highly humid.
A part of the mech worriedly checked the plant specimens. Neither heater nor chiller was functional, likely a result of the electric shock. It would take time for internal healing agents to fix the damage. However, the specimens remained viable.
In the expanded hold, TarTar's carrier signal showed he was alive, but comatose. The shock had been nearly too much for his system.
Abruptly exterior hull visual pathways re-initialized. Stardancer could see again. He found himself in the center of a carbon dioxide fog, an odd shimmering whiteness preventing visual, radar, or lidar determination of the room's size. He was gripped in a padded cradle, ability to move sharply curtailed. Stardancer tried to open the ventral hatches in which were stored walking limbs - required when on a ground - but the lower arcs of the cradle prevented the action.
"Are you one of the faithful...?" whispered over Stardancer's audio receptors, an odd echoing reverberation to the words as they trailed into nothingness. It took several seconds for the groggy Stardancer to realize that the sentence had been /spoken/ aloud, and that it had been in the language of the Creators.
"Are...are you talking to me?" answered Stardancer, replying in the same language. He had a speaking grille located under his forward nose plate, one which he rarely utilized. Radio was the medium of Tic-Toc choice, both in space and in an atmosphere. The use of Creator speech was innately known to him, as it was any mech new from his mother's assembly womb, even as it bore little resemblance to the tongue Tic-Tocs used among themselves.
There was a pause, then a reply: "We are talking to you. Are you one of the faithful, and what is your designation?"
The words had a tinge of impatience to them. However, with increasing belief that he was in the presence of actual Creators, that they had returned to this plane of existence, Stardancer /knew/ he was not worthy of such attention. He was a mere speck of nothing...undeserving to paint the stucco of the meanest studio apartment. It was no wonder such exalted beings would be impatient with him.
Stardancer focused on a ball of light which approached through the gauzy mist, gently swirling the carbon dioxide wisps. Sparkles lent an impressive aura to the being, the god. "Yes...yes, sirs. I...I've always tried to worship you as the Priests have led, but I have made transgressions. Please don't smite me, but I understand if you must. I am unworthy of your attentions. My name, oh great ones, is Stardancer."
The ball of light bobbed up and down gently in unfelt winds. "Your designation is Stardancer. Your transgressions are irrelevant. We have something that we need you to do for us...."
Stardancer eagerly listened, fright forgotten (as well as TarTar and plants) in the midst of a religious experience.
*****
Borg were not very practiced at religion. That was not to say that the Collective did not know religion. In fact, the Collective had classified distinct 553,711 cults, sects, theologies, and groups, not to mention the multitudes of variations. This was rather astounding, considering that the Borg had only encountered 13,304 sentient species. The only category which exceeded 'religion' was 'political party,' and the latter often crowded the former definition. However, just because one has an analytical knowledge of a subject, that was not to say one could effectively apply said knowledge.
{More sparklies,} said 21 of 39, co-founder and ex-pastor of the Ministry of Universal Unitarianism Togetherness and Infinite Cows and the only thing remotely approaching religious authority on Cube #347. By default he had been assigned to choreograph the production. The areas where sparkle enhancement was required were indicated in a virtual representation of Bulk Cargo Hold #3. In response, holographic emitters dutifully added the sparks.
{It looks like a disco,} complained 188 of 203 of the assimilation hierarchy, who had no idea what a disco was, only that the scene in the cargo hold resembled a picture from the file of ancient Terran photographs he maintained. There was the vague feeling that 'disco' was not an appropriate atmosphere for religion.
21 of 39 disagreed with 188 of 203's thought stream. {There are many examples of religions which required a visually stimulating ambiance in order to appropriately contact and/or worship their deity or deities. For instance...}
{Concentrate on the production,} interrupted Captain as he steered 21 of 39 back to the task at hand.
{Compliance,} said 21 of 39.
In Bulk Cargo Hold #3, holographic emitters, white linen, and liberal use of solid carbon dioxide floating in tubs of water had produced a tailored religion experience for the Tic-Toc. The mech appeared enthralled, as such could be determined, responding to the blob of light 21 of 39 had deemed to be an appropriately ambiguous proxy for the mech species #6 Creator. A question had just been posed to the mech, the first step in gaining his cooperation.
Then three engineering drones sporting a variety of maintenance tools pushed through one of the cloth curtains. "Could you direct us to the reported problem?" asked the foremost drone.
Delta, alerted by 21 of 39 as to the unauthorized intrusion, immediately questioned the trio, {What are you doing in Bulk Cargo Hold #3?}
{Maintenance roster item 26?} replied 52 of 310, suddenly unsure. The signatures of his comrades echoed his uncertainty.
{Maintenance roster item 26 is in Bulk Cargo Hold #4,} replied Delta. She expanded the roster and highlighted the item in question. {Bulk Cargo Hold #4.}
{This isn't Bulk Cargo Hold #4?} said 91 of 240. All three were statue still as they communicated with Delta; and all three were in plain view of the mech.
Delta roared in stereo, {No! Check your locality!}
All three did so, then 52 of 310 and 91 of 240 rounded on 34 of 42. Spat 52 of 310, {Last time /you/ drive the transporter.}
{Get out of there, all of you,} said 21 of 39. {Now!}
The three scuttled off.
"What...who were those?" queried Stardancer after the trio had vanished. "They were part organic, part mech!"
21 of 39, who had been trying to determine an answer to such a question, selected an appropriate passage from the Hylaxian Purple Bible. The text was slightly altered, then cued to those puppeting the faux-Creator. "They are lesser beings, those who did not suit and therefore were not allowed to go forth into the universe. They serve us into perpetuity."
{Lesser beings?} squawked 91 of 240. She was ignored.
"But you let us into the universe. Is it because we are as fully inorganic as possible?"
A quote from the Satanic Worshippers Guide was passed over as too full of 'ye' and 'thee'. Instead, verse 67, chapter 888, of the Ulic's Pamphlet to Eternal Happiness and Damnation was chosen. "You are as you are."
Stardancer was silent as he digested the latest vague pronouncement. He must have come to a decision, for he suddenly asked, "What do you want with me?"
"We require the probe your kind has designated 'Mouth' to be returned to us." The light bobbed up and down. Adjacent several water tubs, a fan was turned on, tearing the carbon dioxide into long streamers.
"Why?"
21 of 39 disliked 'why'. That was always the most annoying, and potentially deadly, question to be had in the religion arena. To ask 'why' was to actually think. {Make the light brighter, larger,} directed 21 of 39.
The Creator loomed over Stardancer as carbon dioxide swirled at near gale forces. "You question us?"
"Yes...yes, sir. I am sorry, sir." The synthetic voice of the mech almost seemed to be crying; and if the mech had been clad in an organic body, it likely would have been crouched submissively.
The Creator was toned to a less extreme luminance, and fan speed was set to a lower velocity to prevent bedsheets from excessively flapping. "You are strong. The probe was sent as a test. Your race has failed the test at this time. You do not hear the wisdom in the probe. We must take back the probe. You are not ready for us to return." The speech had been lifted without modification from Little Quiqui's Storybook Manual for Enlightened Girls, Boys, and Neuters.
"Failed..." wailed Stardancer.
21 of 39 knew the mech was close to breaking. It was time for the final push. A benevolent deity always had a carrot to go with the stick. "And if you assist in returning the probe to us, we will grant a boon to you."
"A...boon? A favor? You could do that?"
"Do you doubt us?" The fans were switched to high once more; and the Creator grew in light intensity even as general hold luminance was dimmed.
The cradle in which Stardancer was restrained vibrated. "No! No! I do not doubt the Creators!"
Point made, 21 of 39 directed the Creator hologram to return to normalcy. Beyond the mech's ken, there was a brief difficulty concerning the fans, but it was resolved by disengaging the local breaker. All wind was lost, but that was better than falling linen and a shattered illusion. Carbon dioxide sluggishly swirled above the deck.
"Good." Long pause. "What do you desire?"
Stardancer was silent a long time, then quietly spoke. "I have everything I want in this life except a child to foster. I would like a fosterling."
"Done." The Borg were unclear on many aspects of Tic-Toc society and reproduction, but such did not matter. The promise was hollow and the sub-collective would have agreed to anything to acquire the mech's cooperation. "Do you accept our task to you?"
"Yes, sir. I do." There was a bright fervor in Stardancer's synthetic voice which had not been present before.
A brief transmission was directed at the mech. "Here are the coordinates to which you will bring the probe once you secure it. We will be waiting for you. Hold still and be ready. This will hurt."
The faux-Creator was gone; and drones with extinguishers were putting out the fires started in the bedsheets following the disruptor blast. Above, docking tractor beams were shuttling the unconscious Tic-Toc to the cargo hold doors, and thence to space. Dry ice, water, and tubs had been transported to Supply Closet #20 for purposes unknown by any except 52 of 203. Into the controlled chaos materialized Weapons and 200 of his hierarchy.
{Hurry up and push off!} shouted Weapons into the intranet. {I've reserved this cargo hold for the next several regeneration cycles.} He verbally repeated the same words to those non-tactical drones present.
In his nodal intersection, Captain accessed the sign up sheet in question, reading the entry. It said "Incapacitation and Termination Workshop - Species #1 though #1000." Captain blinked. {Weapons, the majority of species #1 to #1000 are either assimilated, extinct, or have disappeared.}
{Irrelevant,} replied Weapons. {We are now obviously as unneeded on this vessel as the assimilation hierarchy.} To that barb, Assimilation did not respond: he was intently classifying the attributes of a new type of gray. The sarcasm was biting. Weapons was annoyed at the subtle route Cube #347 was taking to acquire the probe. {However, one day we will be required, and we will be ready.}
Captain dismissed Weapons. {Whatever.}
*****
The universe swam into focus. Infrared, X-ray, ultraviolet, visual, radar, microwave, radio...one by one senses reconnected with neural-circuits. They relayed that Stardancer was slowly tumbling on a trajectory which would eventually (give or take a thousand Shrine solar revolutions) plunge him into the sun. There was no impossible wall, no electrical disturbances, nothing which should not be present in the volume between civilized Tic-Toc ports.
Exterior scan complete - a large burn scar along the starboard dorsal flank was dismissed as cosmetic - Stardancer turned inward. The heater in his forward hold was working, maintaining the flora specimens at their appropriate temperature; and while unconscious, TarTar seemed to be okay as well. Other minor malfunctions caught part of Stardancer's attention, but there was nothing that personal autoimmune systems could not repair. As he examined himself, part of the mech's thinking processes digested the encounter he had just experienced.
The conclusion? He had been touched by the hand of the Creators, by the gods themselves.
Okay, they sounded a little funny, a bit stiff in speech pattern, somewhat odd with the hint of multiple voices. Then there was the sense that much of the conversation had been spoken on the part of the Creators as if read from an unfamiliar book. No matter. Stardancer was a mere Tic-Toc, and it was not his place to question the Creators.
"What do you think, TarTar?" rhetorically asked Stardancer to his unresponsive pet. Far away, a time-lagged transmission sang from one scanner team to another, noting a suspicious thermal signature. It was large lost amid the radio spectrum clamor of mechs, sapient and nonsentient alike, calling to each other. Stardancer listened absentmindedly to the normal chatter of the star system, contemplating his course of action.
Finally, Stardancer came to a decision. The farm, the greenhouse, the female would have to be postponed. There were more important things to consider. Stardancer halted his tumble and pointed his nose towards Shrine, engaging impulse engines.
*****
Mech scanner teams meticulously gridded the system. As well as their own senses, they relied upon the electromagnetic "nose" of a domestic related to the guard dog which apparently functioned as a bloodhound. However, much volume remained to be searched, and a hunt on the scale of a solar system meant a net with many holes. Cube #347, located several million kilometers sunward of the second planet, watched the mech Stardancer approach the probe's general location. The ship was in little danger of being found within the next several days.
Assuming, that is, the cloak did not fail.
Weapons paid no attention to engineering concerns. He was very busy administering the workshop in Bulk Cargo Hold #3. The third, and final, batch of 200 drones were watching a demonstration prior to their individual and group attempts at incapacitation and/or termination.
"Species #518 - Vyilu," said Weapons, his voice amplified over local speakers, "was assimilated into the Borg Collective 6910 years ago. It has not been encountered since that time. However, it is imperative we are ready at all times for a secret colony of species #518 to be discovered. Resistance quotient of this species is 2, very low. We will begin with the twenty-one methods to disable, but not terminate, a subject."
In front of Weapons materialized a hologram of species #518. It was a humanoid biped less than a meter tall with a distinct resemblance to an obese chinchilla. A covering of short, pale yellow fur covered the epidermis; and the clothing, blue hot pants paired with a suede t-shirt, was typical for a civilian. When confronted with stress (including, but not limited to - advancing cybernetic hordes, tax day, pop quizzes, and the blinking numbers on a video recording appliance), the race had an instinctual habit of falling to the ground and rolling up in a passive ball.
"The most efficient method of incapacitation is to loom, like thus." Weapons raised both arms and waved them at the hologram. Obligingly, the Vyilu shrunk to the floor, shivering as it cowered.
Elsewhere, Delta noted as certain vital parameters dipped, then spiked. The cloak did not fail, not quite. She cajoled mobile engineering teams to determine a physical causation while at the same time pressing mixed-hierarchy partitions as to the outcomes of their individual software diagnostics.
In Bulk Cargo Hold #3, a hundred replicas of species #518 came into existence. "Practice the technique. Once I am satisfied that you all have a reasonable grasp at looming - this is very similar to methods applied against species #336! - we will move to the second incapacitation technique," Weapons announced.
As he strolled along the ranks of his hierarchy, making forceful corrections where necessary, Weapons considered the troubles engineering was having with the cloak. Thoughts curled in upon themselves in the tight coils of Weapons' mind. The sub-collective would come crawling to him when the attempt at subtlety failed, and he would be ready, both to kick a** and to say "I told you so." Borg were meant for directness. He was already practicing exactly how he would impart the I-told-you-so.
*****
Tic-Tocs primarily recognized each other through a tertiary carrier wave which always broadcast a unique designator. It was the equivalent of a radio "Hello, My Name Is..." badge. Secondarily cues to individuality were body configuration, cosmetic alterations, and thermal signature. Therefore, Stardancer was not surprised when a greeter unknown to the mech dropped from the ranks of its kind parked in higher orbit, advancing with a hail.
"Greetings, Stardancer! Welcome back! Our records indicate you have recently completed a pilgrimage and were returning to your home. While I am glad you have come back, I must remind you that if you desire a second pilgrimage, you must fill out the appropriate forms and submit them. At this time, the wait period on second pilgrimages is approximately a Shrine decade." If the greeter had sported a face, there would have been a fixed, fake smile upon it. The greeters, acolyte Priests, were ever chasing off those who just wanted 'a quick trip down to the planet.'
Brusquely replied Stardancer, "I'm not here for another pilgrimage, Solarwind. I need access to the Mouth."
Solarwind immediately became more accommodating. "Ah, the Mouth. Yes, a very popular destination. There are currently four designated parking orbits where full-time reception of the Mouth can be found; and eight additional orbits where you can hear the Mouth for a majority of a Shrine day-period." On a secondary transmission band, Stardancer received the electronic equivalent of a tourist map, complete with advertisements and camping tips. "Due to Tic-Toc volume, the management does ask that you stay no more than thirty Shrine day-periods in any given site. Sites are at a first-come, first-served basis. The records do show that you have a pet. If your pet requires exercise, several lovely asteroids have been towed in..."
Impatient, Stardancer cut through Solarwind's spiel. "No! No! No! I do not wish to see or hear the Mouth! I /need/ to be /at/ the Mouth! It is imperative!"
Struck by the fervor Solarwind heard in Stardancer's transmission, the greeter attempted the most dangerous of questions, "Why?"
"Because I had a revelation, a religious experience! The Creators told me to! I must directly see the Mouth. I must touch the Mouth." While Tic-Tocs did not produce spit, nor have the saliva glands to do so in the first place, the image of a religion fanatic crossed the visual processors of the acolyte.
Solarwind was silent for several long beats at the pronouncement. He then tentatively tried to probe Stardancer's mania, "I...see. Are you feeling okay? Not feeling sick, are you? Neural-circuits all aligned and nothing scrambled? There is a large scorch mark on your hull, you know."
"I know," replied Stardancer. "It is a mark of my time with the Creators, a physical reminder. However, cosmetics aside, I must must must must be with the Mouth. I must!"
Solarwind activated a bank of thrusters, opening several additional meters between himself and the obviously obsessed Stardancer. In cases like these, Solarwind decided to follow a long tradition practiced throughout the universe wherever sentient life was present, and which had existed since the first sapient creature was faced with the original impossible obstacle in the form of a stubborn customer. He passed the buck to a higher authority.
"I understand," soothed the acolyte. "I understand. If you will just follow me, I have someone you can talk to and explain your dilemma."
And so, through a series of buck passing, Stardancer rose through the Priest organization like a hot air balloon in a turbulent atmosphere. Stardancer went from the greeter to the Chief of Acolytes; and from Chief of Acolytes to Teaching Headmaster; and from Teaching Headmaster to sub-Deacon. At each level, the Priest was stymied by Stardancer's demand to see the Mouth directly. Even the presence of guards with weapons mounted on their hulls and vicious guard dogs leashed to much smaller handlers did not cause Stardancer to waver. Finally he found himself before a Priest Elder, one who held the virtual keys to the Mouth itself.
In the shadow of the Mouth, Stardancer told his story of the quest bestowed upon him by the Creators themselves. He stressed that the Creators had not forsaken the Tic-Toc race, as some heretics claimed, but were present /within the system at this very moment/. They, however, were disappointed that their trial had not been passed, and wanted the Mouth returned to them for a future testing. The story grew increasingly elaborate and embellished as it was told, Stardancer supplying details which had not been presented during his abduction. Fiction had become reality in Stardancer's mind, a vibrant reality which had only one possible outcome.
Through it all, Stardancer stared at the Mouth where it floated behind the Priest Elder. It was tethered to several small asteroids, stabilizing its position in geosynchronous orbit above Shrine. In addition to serving as tethering points, the asteroids also housed devices the Priests used to examine the Mouth. A herd of domesticated male miners slowly purified ores and gasses, the output trundled by trader carry-alls to builders for further processing into new equipment; and one rock had the distinctive form of a refueling depot stretching upwards from its surface.
The Mouth was not what one expected when imaging what form a Creator-administered test would take. It was not overly large, nor highly ornate. If anything, it resembled a Tic-Toc, both in size and general configuration. It obviously was not a Tic-Toc, nor a mech at all, but a device such as might hail from a builder of any of a wide variety of domestics. There was a thing called a computer buried at the heart of the Mouth, a type of primitive, idiotic mech which had (maybe) the brainpower of at pet such as TarTar. Still, despite the design, it had originated from the Creators, and therefore it was to be revered.
"Request denied," pronounced the Priest Elder once Stardancer was finished arguing his case.
Stardancer was stunned. The Priest Elder hadn't even made a show of considering the tale, nor had any transmissions been directed at other Priest Elders for a conference. He had been summarily dismissed as if he were a child begging for a piece of radioactive-enhanced ore candy.
Sputtered Stardancer, "No! No! Priest Elder Redshift, you must listen to me! I saw the Creators! I spoke with them and they spoke with me! I even saw the poor half organic, half mech servitors that were our own ancestors!" Stardancer advanced on the Priest Elder.
"Will someone take away this lunatic?" asked Priest Elder Redshift as he backed away. Several guards shifted from their positions, englobing Stardancer. A pair of grapple-shackles were readied.
"EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! THIS IS A SYSTEM-WIDE EMERGENCY!" On the primary verbal band, a powerful transmission overwhelmed all conversation. "ALIEN VESSEL - BORG - SEEN NEAR SHRINE! COORDINATES ARE AS FOLLOWS! ALL TIC-TOCS REQUIRED TO REPULSE THE INVADER!" A string of numbers followed the pronouncement, grid coordinates pinpointing a location in tenacious orbit around Shrine itself amid a reserve of small metal-bearing rocks towed from the inner belt for purposes of on-going Shrine construction and maintenance. After the initial announcement, which was rippling outward at the speed of light from Shrine to inform outlying mechs, the broadcast shifted to a public emergency-radio frequency.
Involuntarily, Stardancer shifted his attention to the locale. There he saw the Borg cube the scanner teams had been attempting to find. To see it so close to Shrine was horrible. The alien threatened Shrine; and it threatened the work all Tic-Tocs had made to welcome the Creators when they returned. Already guards and Priests were boosting to the higher orbit, dogs unleashed and sent ahead in a baying pack. Tourists and waiting pilgrims were leaving their parking slots and similarly joining the mob. The invader would be repulsed. Several million local Tic-Tocs converged upon the lone cube.
Stardancer fought against the instinct. He wanted to join the onslaught, to throw himself at the intruder until the latter either retreated or was torn to pieces. His death was meaningless. No...no...he must not join the group. He must secure the Mouth...
The Mouth was unguarded. The Elder Priest, the guards, even lounging acolytes trying to avoid work were heading upward and outward at maximum velocity. Not a growling dog was to be seen. He was forgotten in the scramble. Stardancer lit thrusters and sidled over to the Mouth. It was short work to open a hatch and exude a cutting laser, slicing through tethers.
Furtively pinging on all navigation frequencies, Stardancer watched the unfolding drama above. The first wave of defenders was approaching - Tic-Toc asteroid wranglers and sleek, although less powerful, coursing dogs. The Mouth was fully as large as Stardancer himself, so he would be unable to stuff it in a hull...which was assuming he was desperate enough to eject TarTar. On the other hand, a grapple would work well enough. Stardancer aimed a magnetic grapple at the Mouth and fired, automatically taking up the slack as the magnet engaged.
Fixing in mind the coordinates provided by the Creators, Stardancer stared at the skirmish happening overhead before heading in the opposite direction as fast as he could.
*****
Cube #347 orbited among the rocky dross and debris which surrounded the second planet. The cloak had allowed the cube to approach; and the high metallic ore content of the asteroids further served to mask inadvertent emissions produced as the cloak time and again almost failed. An observant eye might notice the odd cube-shaped hole where none should be, but the Tic-Tocs had not seen the lurker.
The sub-collective was becoming impatient, with Weapons at the forefront.
{Calculations show 88.9% chance the mech has failed,} said Weapons, throwing numbers into the face of command and control, and most especially Captain and Second. {The only logical recourse is to descend to a lower orbit and tractor the probe.}
{Destroying as many mech species #6 individuals as possible along the way?} sarcastically responded Second.
Weapons sniffed, {Well, only if they get in our way. And even if they don't. Several rocks shifted from this debris ring will be an adequate distraction if aimed at the surface; and they will make a wonderful boom as well.} The head of the weapons hierarchy had returned to Bulk Cargo Hold #3 after downtime for regeneration. The workshop had shifted emphasis on species #1001 through #2000. Currently he was supervising 200 of his hierarchy chasing after a species that resembled an organic pogo stick in that it had one leg and hopping was the method of locomotion. Resistance quotient of the race was 7, greater than average, primarily due to the fact it was so difficult to catch the buggers.
Captain examined several partitions confirming Weapons' numbers. None of them showed the percentage quoted. {Weapons. That number is reached only if certain assumptions are used, among them that the mech has gone completely mute and deaf and is forced to rely upon the local version of sign language to communicate with his conspecifics.}
{It could happen,} muttered Weapons. Aloud, "66 of 83! Use the net gun on your target, not others of your assault squad!"
The computer beeped a pleasant 'Attention' tone to all drones, then announced, {Cloak stability is compromised. Failure is imminent. Have a pleasant day.}
{Damn!} swore Delta in stereo, followed by, {And who messed with the computer's programming again? I thought the core had been scrubbed of that "Miss Nice" freeware pseudo-persona 130 of 422 downloaded.}
The question of unwanted files cluttering the computer would have to wait, for programs watching the performance of cloak parameters reported a spike...one which was persisting and not returning to nominal values. One of Delta threw up her hands in annoyance and disgust. {Where is that problem originating? With much certainty, it is /not/ hardware based. All simulations show that the cloak should not be performing like this. It is as if we were being...deliberately...sabotaged....} Delta's intranet words trailed off in suspicion as the cloak finally, and fatally, malfunctioned.
{You were the cause, weren't you?} accused Delta of Weapons.
Weapons had already halted the workshop and drones were returning to their alcoves for the upcoming battle. {No.}
{You /did/.}
{No.}
Delta captured a loose command and control partition mirror-thread, directing it towards Weapons. It showed a datatrail the partition had just discovered, one mostly hidden and with subtle indications that it might, just might, lead back to a certain head of a certain hierarchy. {You did!}
{No.}
{You did.}
{Maybe?} finally half-admitted Weapons. The deed was done, anyway, and no punishment short of termination would be sufficient to dissuade Weapons from similar future acts; and no other member of his hierarchy was daft enough to desire to be Weapons as long as Weapons still functioned. Besides, some weren't quite sure death itself would be enough to keep 45 of 300 from being Weapons. After all, he had already returned from the dead once.
{AHAH!} crowed Delta. The action did nothing to fix the cloak or the trouble brewing among the local mech populace, but it did validate Delta's suspicions and justify her adamant insistence that no hardware problems were causing the faults. {You destabilized a system already on the verge of failure. You exaggerated the high and lows!}
Weapons was noncommittal, {Could be.} The lights in Bulk Cargo Hold #3 were dimmed and the pogo stick species had been replaced with a three-dimensional real-time depiction of Cube #347 and its surroundings. Points representing mechs and their domestics were rapidly converging upon the cube.
{Enough!} inserted Captain. {Now that Weapons, or whomever, has forced our hand, we must respond. Can we still acquire the probe?}
There was a flurry of calculations, then 2 of 480 responded, {Negative. There are too many mechs between us and the target. We must retreat.}
{Retreat?} growled Weapons. {We do not retreat!}
2 of 480 spat back, {Then advance in the opposite direction! The definition does not matter. The individual mechs may be small, but the sensors hierarchy reports over two million of them in space within half an AU; and there are an additional five million upon the surface of the planet. Seven million to one are not good odds.}
{We can handle them,} affirmed Weapons.
{And the twenty billion after them?} asked Second, referring to the estimated solar system populace of mech species #6.
Weapons accepted that there was a minor risk. {That might be a bit tougher.}
{Enough,} said Captain. {Weapons, prepare for a fighting /retreat/.} He ignored the protest. {Delta, how long until the cloak is back on-line?}
Delta considered the cloak systems. Now that Weapons wasn't covertly tweaking it...{We will require at least an hour to fix blown relays and reinitialize.}
The first wave of mechs and their dogs were attacking. The weapons hierarchy gleefully responded with a spread of quantum torpedoes. As those which had not been outright destroyed splashed off the shields in kamikaze dives, Cube #347 began to pull out of orbit, leaving the second planet behind.
{Sensors sees Stardancer!} spouted Sensors with unusual clarity. {Stardancer is [chopstick glasses] probe.} A sub-datathread was highlighted, one which focused upon the location pinpointed to contain the probe.
"Maybe this task won't fail," muttered Captain aloud. That was, of course, assuming several million pissed off mechs didn't tear Cube #347 apart first.
*****
Stardancer towed the Mouth, a full bank of scanners focused on the alien intruder and the attacking swarm of Tic-Tocs and domestics. Already tens of thousands of souls had been lost, either through the cube's devastating weaponry or simply crushed against the shields. For unknown reasons, several dogs had gone berserk, turning on whomever was within lunge and laser range. However, the deaths did not slow the assault; and, if anything, the destruction only further inflamed the mob. In response, the cube was beginning to yield, to leave Shrine orbit.
So close, the Mouth overwhelmed the communication radio spectrum. For a Tic-Toc, it was the equivalent of listening continuously to a deafening sound without the benefit of earplugs. Not only could Stardancer not hear the give and take of the battle, but any pursuit, once the alien was driven off and the Mouth discovered to be liberated, would be drowned out as well.
A long hour passed, one full of "Hydrogen" and "Secondary orbital sweep" and "Spectral emission." As always, no sense could be made of the Mouth, although Stardancer did try. Perhaps, while he was enroute to the meeting coordinates, if he could do as no Priest had accomplished and decipher the Mouth's utterings then he could persuade the Creators to show themselves. He would be hailed as a saint!
With visions of sainthood dancing through his imaginative processes, he never considered trying to verbally respond to the Mouth's babblings; and the Mouth, ever lacking input (the Priests only listened as well), continued to try to enhance its translation programming by speaking random phrases in the hopes that it would gain a response.
Although Stardancer felt relief when the cube - its shields were down and damage in the form of kamikaze Tic-Tocs was beginning to crater the hull - abruptly disappeared from his sensors, he also felt a gnawing anticipation. Very shortly the mob would be coming after him.
Stardancer waited at the coordinates the Creators had bestowed upon him. The Mouth ("Gaseous inclusion" and "Spoon") shouted at full volume, still attached to the mech via tether. Stardancer was actually somewhat relieved he could not hear anything besides the Mouth, for he was sure the posse of approaching Priests and guards with their extremely large dogs were inventing new words to describe him, his parentage, his very existence.
Where were the Creators? If they did not make an appearance shortly, not only would the Mouth be returned to Shrine orbit, but there would be little left of Stardancer, their faithful servant.
In Stardancer's hold, TarTar began to rock. It was the first movement the carry-all had made beyond sluggishly begging for food since the divine encounter.
"I know you want to go for a walk, TarTar. You've been stuck in me for such a long time. I promise we'll play a long game of fetch once the Creators come and I'm allowed to go home," whispered Stardancer to his pet.
TarTar whistled an electronic whine, but refused to be soothed. Instead he began to fidget even more, small digging limbs ineffectively scrabbling against the hold interior.
"TarTar!" rebuked the mech. "You are going to scratch up my insides! Wait a minute...what is that...?" Stardancer paused as the electrical variances along his hold began to wildly fluctuate. And then, before instinctual radar had done more than register yet another impossible wall, the Borg cube uncloaked.
A cliff of metal loomed above and below, starboard and port of Stardancer. Damage from the skirmish at Shrine was still present, but even as the startled mech watched, the hull was rebuilding itself. A Tic-Toc had the equivalent of an autoimmune system and the innate ability to repair damage, but not on the scale represented by the cube. Electrical discharges caused minor overloads among sensor clusters: sparkles and visual hallucinations swam in Stardancer's vision. The mech was both overawed and extremely frightened.
An audio-only radio transmission strong enough to drown out the Mouth blasted Stardancer. The combination of shock and volume was sufficient for the Tic-Toc to not register the fact that the accompanying message was in the Creator's language. Stardancer was forced to listen.
"You have the probe. You will relinquish the probe to us. Resistance is futile." A multitude of voices wove the abrupt speech into a synthetic whole.
Stardancer shuddered as the transmission ended, then came to an immediate decision. He swung his body into position between the giant threat and the Mouth, shielding it with his pitiful bulk. The aliens must not have the holy relic. On a direct return transmission on the same frequency, Stardancer responded, "You will not take the Mouth!" Simultaneously, the Tic-Toc broadcast a omnidirectional plea for help, "Oh mighty Creators, please assist your faithful servant! Bring down your wrath upon the aliens, I beg of you, before they steal your Mouth!"
There was no response.
With ease, a tractor beam burrowed through Stardancer's weak shields and latched to his hull. Tic-Tocs do not sport the equivalent of claws and fangs, speed and evasion the primary defense of the primordial scout-type. Evolution had favored brains over brawn. Therefore, Stardancer first tried to use his thrusters, then impulse, to escape, to no avail. Neither he nor the Mouth budged a single centimeter.
Demonstrating the futility of resistance, Stardancer could only watch helpless as a low-powered cutting beam lanced outwards from a cube-mounted emitter. After slicing near enough to his hull for the residual energy to register, the beam smartly severed the tether. A second tractor beam caught the now free Mouth, pulling it away from Stardancer.
"No! No! You can't do that!" The cube remained silent in the face of Stardancer's sobbing protest. "You just can't!"
The Mouth vanished within the green aura of a transporter.
"Nooooooo!"
Stardancer felt the tractor beam release him, sending his body into a deliberate tumble. Before he could straighten himself, the cube disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. The only trace of the encounter was the gale of electronic backwash washing over sensors and causing a wave of visual and aural static.
"No! Come back! Pleeeeeease...."
*****
Success!
{Destination: unimatrix 009. Engaging hypertranswarp,} intoned Captain. He automatically summarized the complex series of actions required for such a seemingly simple pronouncement. The sensor hierarchy examined the local subspace currents for unexpected anomalies; and the data, suitably scrubbed of Sensors' more confusing interpretations, was used by command and control to plot the appropriate course. Simultaneously, engineering confirmed propulsion functionality.
Weapons ignored all, miffed that he had not been allowed to destroy the Tic-Toc.
Assimilation concentrated upon describing the complex interactions of gray on gray at the back of his alcove.
In anticipation of the next difficult surgery, Doctor cheerily refilled the reward boxes he kept in all maintenance bays with rubber squeak toys and chew-treats.
Cube #347 sunk through the subspace layers into the faster-than-light realm of hypertranswarp. Stardancer and the rest of the Tic-Toc system was dismissed to minor sub-collective long-term memory pathways.
{Cloaks are a stupid concept,} remarked Weapons in a not-so-idly manner. {Cube #347's cloak should be permanently disengaged.}
The words, designed to provoke, roused the ire of the head of the engineering hierarchy, who did not take kindly to unsubtle threats to the integrity of /any/ cube system, even those that were not quite functional to begin with. {If you touch one relay, I will make sure all weapons upgrades are permanently regulated to the bottom of the to-do roster. Replacing the burnt out light strips in the sub-hull corridors will be of greater importance.}
{You would not dare to be delinquent in enginnering hierarchy's duties,} accused Weapons. Concurrently, he hastily urged two "special" squads to replace several cloak relays that had "accidentally" fallen out of their node juncture housings.
{Try me.}
{Weapons! Delta!} interrupted Captain. {Weapons, you will not touch the cloak system, either via the dataspace or physically; and Delta, you will continue proper maintenance on /all/ aspects of this cube. Do you both understand me? And no loopholes, Weapons.}
{Compliance,} immediately said Delta.
There was a long pause, then {Compliance} from Weapons as well.
Captain was in his alcove. To his right came the sound of a drone disengaging from an alcove. As Second passed, he remarked, "That isn't going to last, you know. Weapons is already..."
{I know,} snapped Captain in return, not bothering to engage body visual senses nor verbalize aloud.
It was going to be a longer than usual trip to unimatrix 009. One could only hope for an omniscient alien looking for someone to have a bad day upon or a rogue spatial anomaly, either of which would focus the loose ends of Cube #347 upon the threat. Such, of course, when wanted was not to be.
*****
From beyond the border demarked by the orbit of the outermost planet, Stardancer forlornly watched the four guards and their massive dogs. They had escorted him to the frontier shacked in bands of tritanium cables, only removing them prior to his final, symbolic expulsion from civilization. He was banished, never to set forth again in the system he called home, ever treated like an infidel alien intruder.
The Priest Elders had thought it a worse punishment than death.
Following the theft of the Mouth by the Borg vessel, Stardancer had been caught and returned to Shrine for a kangaroo court proceeding. It was already known what the verdict would be, despite the long arguments which questioned Stardancer's sanity and intellect. Pronounced sane and of above average IQ, his job, his farm, everything Stardancer held dear was stripped from him. His only possessions were those which remained in his holds: TarTar and a few plant cuttings and cultures. And even they had been allowed to him only because the Priests had universally derided anything associated with him at the time of the theft.
Of course, the Priest Elders didn't view the theft of the Mouth as a theft. They saw it as a willing defilation of the Creators, with Stardancer in league with the Borg.
With his above average IQ, Stardancer should have been able to link circumstantial evidence to see how he had been flamboozled. Prior to both his initial experience and the theft there had been changes in electrical variances, TarTar's reactions, the invisible wall seen via radar. However, the sentient mind, be it organic or mech, is subject to self-delusion, especially where emotions - and religion invokes strong emotions - are involved. As far as Stardancer was concerned, rationalities abounded: obviously, the Creators had initially saved Stardancer from the Borg; and, obviously, the Borg had somehow eavesdropped on the coordinates provided to Stardancer and thence stolen the Mouth from him.
It was so logical! Why hadn't the Priest Elders understood?
Not even the comet prospectors, not the most religious beings in the world, were sympathetic to Stardancer. From their cold mines in the Oort cloud far beyond the territorial border, they had already transmitted radio messages which indicated he was not welcome among their ranks.
To add insult to injury, one of the guards shouted "Go away!" The call was taken up by the other three; and the dogs added their staticy growls and barks. The warning had been transmitted not in Tic-Toc speech, but in Creator tongue, just as if /he/ were a loitering alien intruder.
"What are we going to do, TarTar?" despondently whispered Stardancer to his pet. TarTar did not respond beyond an electronic whine which indicated a need for food. Stardancer ejected several ore pellets rich in radioactive isotopes into the secondary hold compartment. The restrained TarTar used the few manipulator limbs not bound to grab the kibble treats and stuff them in his mouth.
"Go away! Go away! Go away!"
A thought came to Stardancer as he floated beyond the border listening to the calls, a thought which became resolution. The Borg, they were the cause of his misfortunes; and, therefore, they could be his redemption. All he needed to do was to find the Borg and return the Mouth. He could then return the Mouth to the Priest Elders; and, once everything was explained, lead the Priests to the coordinates provided by the Creators and give back the Mouth in front of an audience. His farm and his greenhouse would be restored to him; and for his deed, a female would surely bestow a child upon him to foster. All would be as it had been before, only better.
When in a fervor, gaps in logic large enough to admit a blue giant star were immaterial.
Stardancer spun on his x-axis, placing his aft towards the guards. A trajectory was plotted, one which was a best guess as to the direction took by the Borg cube. Impulse engines engaged.
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